ikissdhimbck | AU: Western Texas - Gene Hunt

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AU: Western Texas - Gene Hunt - 1888

**NOTE: This is part of a plot arc that was meant to occur in Milliways over the Spring/Summer of 2011 in Bar Time. It has since become an AU, and should be treated as a standalone plot not associated with any game, and not fitting into Kate's continuity.**

A door opens out of thin air, admitting a pair of riders. The gentleman in proper Victorian dress astride a perlino gelding is the first to ride out, followed not long after by the woman on the starred bay. It's late April, and Texas lays open on every side of them. Behind them, to the north, is a low rolling mountain range leading to Kenedy; descending ahead is desert plain, pocked with scruff and scraggly trees. Some ways off to their left are train tracks.

It's midday. The sun is hot, but despite being a little muggy the air is withstandably balmy. It's just the way Kate left it when last she was here. She can even see the dust clouds Beaut kicked up still settling behind them. They're just south of Beeville now, and likely there ain't anybody from Kenedy still chasing after her.

She combs a few renegades from her messy braid back behind her ears, and sets her hat down on her head to ward off the winking sun. Glancing at Gene from the corner of her eye, she just manages to bite back a smirk.

"Home sweet home."

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He's cold, actually. And wet, and half covered with soap, with his shirt undone and stuck to him because of all the damp. And y'know. A bit spooked.

'...'course,' he says, like he's just lounging behind his desk at work, or something.

'...heard you can eat them.'

And, y'know. Thanks, Kate.

"...Yeah. I met someone at the bar who said he'd show me how t'skin 'em right."

Beat.

"You scared the hell outta me."

In other words: don't do that again.

(And you're welcome, Gene.)

He sniffs, and wipes a sud off his chest.

'Weren't you about t'get bit.'

He bends down and stands the water bucket upright.

'We got any more of this? I'm freezin' me bollocks off.'

She stands, holding the body of the rattler. It's a good size, just about thirty-nine inches long.

"I told you t'keep your distance from critters."

Her voice may be flat, but the hand she puts at his elbow is tender, and the look on her face is that of mild relief.

"C'mon back t'the fire. I think I can somehow manage t'keep myself off'a you long enough t'get you cleaned up."

'How disappointin',' he says drily, but the look on his face is amused enough.

'An' how can I keep my distance from somethin' I can' see?'

No matter. He leans in suddenly, and pecks her on the cheek.

'Ta.'

And then strides off back towards the fire.

She smirks at his retreating backside, fingertips brushing her cheek.

"Y'learn t'keep your eyes open."

She mutters the words under her breath, more to herself than anything.

Once back at the fire, she shakes a blanket open and tosses it at Gene. It will have to double as a towel for now. She refills the pot and sets it on the fire to warm; then she gets out her bowie knife, and starts to clean it.

"Be careful with the water. We ain't got a lot t'spare, an' whatever y'don't use can be reused in the mornin'."

It's cowboy law.

'...reused as what?'

That sounds alarming. He doesn't mind getting covered in muck, but he likes to be able to get rid of it and...not have to drink the water the next day.

Though she probably doesn't mean that. But he feels the need to check.

"Figured I'd make soup."

Dry. So dry.

He shoots her a withering look.

Funny, Kate.

She grins back.

"Gimme your shirt. I'll lay it out t'dry."

The water is tepid, but it should do for a quick spit bath. She doesn't say as much to Gene, for fear he'll take that turn of phrase seriously, too.

If she would speak English, he wouldn't have to.

He strips his shirt off without hesitation, balls it up and chucks it at her.

'Ta.'

Just like home, this.

He picks up the bucket and is about to just pour the thing over him, but then thinks she'll probably not take too kindly to that. So he shoots her another look, then does the best he can.

And it really is sodding cold, now.

She glares at him half-heartedly — she didn't mean he should toss his dirty shirt at her. She takes it in stride, but only because he's going to have a lot more surprises before all is said and done in Texas.

"Y'should probably turn in soon. We'll wanna start ridin' early, before the sun crawls too high. Cooler that way."

She glances at him, sweeping her gaze over his exposed flesh — but only briefly.

"An' stick close t'the fire. If your boots are wet, leave 'em next t'the embers so the leather don't shrink up."

He frowns, sweeping the blanket over his hair, unaware of how it sticks up in all directions.

'I should turn in? What abou' you?'

He's not going to sleep and leave her sitting up on her own. He's not a kid.

Her lips twitch.

"I'll feed the fire for a bit. An' wash up myself."

And, as it turns out, she can't help herself from reaching out and fixing a few cowlicks.

'Oh, I see. You're afraid I'll look.'

He lets her mess with his hair. He doesn't mind it. Quite nice, really. It almost makes him lean down and kiss her again, but he restrains himself. Tonight will likely be awkward enough without that in his mind.

'I won' look.'

He turns away to find something to put on. He's deciding the desert isn't as much fun at night, at least so far.

She narrows her eyes at him.

She almost says something, but in the end she actually believes him.

"Don' stay up on my account."

That brings him up short. But he doesn't turn around, just stares off into the night for a minute and takes a deep breath.

'Wouldn' dream of it.'

She lingers another moment, and then gathers up the lukewarm water and shuffles off to the other side of camp, just inside the firelight's reach.

He grabs his pack and yanks clothes out until he finds a shirt. He stays turned away, partly so she doesn't stress about him trying to eye her up, and partly because he's irritated now.

Fine, then. She can have it her way. As soon as he's buttoned the thing up, he chucks another handful of brush on the fire and lies down, lighting up a cigarette. He won't go to sleep first out of principle now, but that doesn't mean he has to sit here and get into idle chat either.

"Are y'throwin' yourself a tantrum over there?" she asks evenly, listening to the sounds he's making.

'...no I bloody am not.'

Kate's eyes are on the sky, her back to the camp.

"You usually get cranky before bed, then?"

He bites back the response he wants to give, and says nothing. Just pulls his hipflask out and avails himself of some of Scotland's finest.

"Hm."

She's not going to prod him like a stubborn bull. And she's not going to start guessing, either. At least, certainly not now, when she's dressed down to her chemise and working the knots out of her hair.

So, it'll be quiet, save for the trickle of water from sponge to bucket and the pop and crackle of the fire.

Inevitably, his eyelids start to droop. He fights it, and lights another fag. But it's so quiet here, and despite his annoyance with her, having her over there trickling water about is a relaxing sound.

And it's till cold. Maybe he'll just grab that blanket and put it to use. Not that he's falling asleep, mind.

...not even when the first light snore comes. Not asleep.

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ikissdhimbck - 2011-05-14 01:28 (UTC) - Expand

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